


Scars and All

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom Greg Lestrade, Emotional Healing, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Jealous Greg Lestrade, Jellybean Greg, M/M, Married Couple, Married mystrade, Not On My Watch No Sir, Protective Mycroft Holmes, Soft sex, Solving Our Problems Like Grown-Ups, Tenderness, Top Mycroft Holmes, Zero Infidelity Happens In This Fic, reassurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26990722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Greg Holmes-Lestrade doesn't want to be the jealous type - but it's hard to look away when his husband's new assistant is getting so blatantly flirty. Though Greg trusts Mycroft completely, the young and ambitious Hugo seems determined to cause trouble. The wounds from Greg's first marriage still hurt like hell and he's not willing to go through it all again.What exactly will it take to get Hugo to back off?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 73
Kudos: 822
Collections: JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny Adoptions





	Scars and All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paia_Loves_Pie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/gifts).



> This story is inspired by [this amazing picture of Rupert Graves](https://mottlemoth.tumblr.com/post/631514578644353024/gravesdiggers-rupert-graves-as-gabriel-hirsch) from the upcoming new series of _Riviera_. (Please do not click on that link if you need to be functional for the next hour or so.) It's also inspired by all the screaming that [Paia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie) and I did when we saw the photo. I hope you like how this turned out, kitten. 'Tis for you. <3
> 
> My love also goes to the lovely [Ewebie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie), who did a magnificent job beta-reading this story. Ewebles wanted me to call it _Fuck You Hugo, Don't Be A Prick_. 
> 
> Without further ado...

From the minute that they met, Greg knew Hugo would be trouble.

There was nothing in particular he could point to, no evidence strong enough to warrant a conversation—just something in the tight-lipped smile Hugo gave him, the briefness of that introductory handshake; the way Hugo positioned himself at Mycroft's side for it, as if Greg were being introduced to _him,_ not the other way around; the way Hugo laughed uproariously at Mycroft's every tiny witticism then lightly glanced Greg's way, as if to ask, _did you not find that amusing, inspector? Don't you understand your husband's humour as well as I do?_ It was an unsettling first impression, and Greg replays the memories often in his mind.

For the first few weeks, he beat himself up for it.

_My history,_ he thought. _My own bloody paranoia._ He tried telling himself to just relax—to ignore his ghosts, trust in his husband's loyalty and let the months slip by. Anthea's maternity leave won't last forever. Hugo is a temporary annoyance in an otherwise very happy situation, and it's pathetic to acknowledge these weird instincts at all.

But Christ, he wishes Hugo would stop _touching_ Mycroft. Smoothing Mycroft's collar when it needs no fixing, hurrying ahead to open doors for him. Grazing Mycroft's elbow with his fingertips, then leaning in to make some sly remark in Mycroft's ear, often with his eyes fixed on Greg.

Hugo is half Greg's age. He went to Cambridge—the same college as Mycroft. His maternal grandfather is a viscount, and he pays more having his fluffy blonde curls tended every month than Greg would normally spend on a suit. Hugo smells like he works at a perfume counter in Harrods. He plays the cello and had a fencing tutor as a child. His silk socks always match his tie.

And sometimes he gazes at Greg's husband like there's nobody else in the world.

Greg suffers it all in silence for nearly four months, resolutely determined that his second marriage won't succumb to the same miserable paranoia as the first. For all of Hugo's efforts, Mycroft doesn't seem to be aware that anything at all is going on. He still coaxes Greg into bed at every single opportunity. They're still in love, still happy, and there's nothing to be worried about.

Greg isn't afraid of Hugo. He's just angry.

And this can't go on for much longer.

*

An hour into the French ambassador's monthly cheese and wine evening, it crosses Greg's mind that half the people here probably suspect Hugo and Mycroft are fucking. Once he's thought it, he can't get it out of his head. Trying to make the evening go faster, he ends up finishing his third glass of wine while everyone else has barely started their second. Each guarded glance he steals across the room leaves him burning up inside: Mycroft the nucleus of every group conversation, Hugo glowing at his side like they're newlyweds.

It never bothered Greg when it was Anthea standing there. 

But then, Anthea came to these things as Mycroft's professional assistant, not his adoring partner. She never giggled at Mycroft's jokes or swatted his arm in mock admonishment. Hugo is attending this event in his capacity as Mycroft's toyboy, whether Mycroft realises it or not.

Meanwhile, Mycroft's husband sits forgotten in a distant corner of the room, quietly getting drunk on his own.

Greg can't keep himself from watching them, can't stop staring. His eyes don't dare to stray far from Hugo's face, just in case he misses the moment a line is finally crossed. He doesn't even know what he would do if he spotted something. It's easy and comforting to daydream: hauling the fluffy little tosser against a wall, pinning him there until he understands who in this room is truly prepared to fight the hardest for Mycroft Holmes-Lestrade. But Mycroft's career wouldn't survive it. Greg is helpless, caged by his love for his husband's reputation, while Hugo seems to be sparkling with the very possibility of an affair. He's young enough to find it all exciting and flattering. Every time Hugo encourages Mycroft to try another sample of cheese, Greg has to work to unclench his jaw.

He wants to get up and walk out of here right now, flag down a taxi and just go the fuck home.

But if he does that, Hugo will see. He'll probably take it as some victory. Proof, at last, that he's successfully wormed his way between two halves of a happy marriage. Greg can't cope with how powerless the thought makes him feel.

The only option is to sit here, lonely and angry, and wish.

As nine o'clock approaches, Greg heads out into the garden for his fifth smoke of the evening. His hands shake as he searches through his jacket for his lighter, the cigarette held between his lips. The darkness out here is a comfort; no one can see him falling apart. He misses Anthea more and more by the second. She'd agree with him wholeheartedly that Hugo is a little wanker, acting inappropriately and well deserving a taste of his own medicine. Anthea would know what to do about this thing. She'd make this nightmare stop somehow.

As Greg's hand closes tight around his lighter, a match flares nearby.

Mycroft offers it out, his hands cupped to shield the tiny flame.

Greg moves closer and leans in. His eyes downcast, he lets his husband light his cigarette for him, wishing to God they were just at home, curled up on the couch with a film and a bottle of wine. Everything is perfect and easy when they're alone. Nothing ever claws its way inside Greg's head.

"What is the matter?" Mycroft asks as Greg smokes, remaining close at his side.

Greg takes a moment to reply, struggling and failing to put it into words. 

"Let's just get through tonight," he says. "Talk about it when we're home."

"May I ask for some small preview?" Mycroft says. "You're normally rather the star of these events. I'm concerned to see you so quiet."

Greg huffs, humourless. It's true he looks forward to these more casual social gatherings; they suit him better than the black tie dinners. The people who come to them are more fun, more amenable to jokes and laughter.

"I don't know if we're wise to open the box here," he admits. "M'afraid of what'll come out."

"This is Pandora's box, is it?"

Blowing smoke, Greg glances down at the ground. "Mhm."

Mycroft takes this onboard. "Is it something I've done?"

Greg's heart squeezes. The Mycroft he knew ten years ago would never have considered something like that. It just wouldn't have crossed his mind.

"No," Greg says softly. "No, it's... it's nothing you've done, darlin'. Something else."

Mycroft hums. 

"A one word preview, perhaps?" he requests. "For my peace of mind."

Greg knows he shouldn't. They should leave this entire mess in its packaging for later, keep things clean and shiny in public. Marrying Mycroft Holmes meant marrying his career. Greg promised himself a long time ago that he would be a tireless source of support, not an obstacle. 

_Then,_ he thinks with a painful glance towards the brightly-lit windows. Everyone in that room probably wonders how long Mycroft's been playing away from home. Greg can't support something when he's being kicked out from under it.

He draws a breath, drops his gaze, and speaks before he can lose his nerve.

"Hugo."

Mycroft's forehead creases. "Hugo?"

Greg says nothing, resisting the urge to press his tongue into his cheek. He smokes instead, his fingers shaking.

"What about Hugo?" Mycroft asks, searching Greg's face.

_Christ,_ Greg thinks, his heart now pounding. _Please don't defend him. Please don't make this into..._

"I know he's young," he says. "I know he's got everything going for him. And I'm sure I thought the world of myself at that age, too. But I didn't fawn that way after married men. There's a line and he's crossing it."

Mycroft blinks. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this.

"Gregory," he says, lost. "What on earth are you—"

"He needs to stop goading me. I'm getting worried that I'll fly for him. And I don't want to be that kind of arsehole."

Mycroft says nothing, uncharacteristically lost for words. 

Greg attempts to smoke to fill the silence—but more words come bursting out.

"He might as well just pull your arm around his waist," he says, shaking, "the way he's carrying on tonight. You and me used to come to these things as a couple. Now he's making me the spare wheel in my own marriage. If he flashes me one more smug little smile, I'm going to kick him from the car on the way home."

Mycroft turns his body slowly towards Greg's. The casual movement shields Greg from all possible view of the windows, and gives Mycroft a chance to rest a hand upon his waist.

"Darling," he says, soft and quiet. He waits until he has Greg's unbroken gaze to continue. "I would like to make it _abundantly_ clear that I have zero romantic or sexual interest in any human being outside my current field of view."

Greg's heart strains.

"I know you don't," he mumbles. "It's not you, love. I'm never worried about you. It's just..."

"Just?" Mycroft prompts, raising an eyebrow.

Greg swallows. "It's humiliating, that's all. Some kid half my age, pawing at my husband. I know he thinks you married beneath you. And he thinks that I don't know it."

Mycroft processes this, silent for a moment as he chooses his words.

"I've been aware of Hugo's... enthusiasm in his role for some time," he says. "I've been taking it for professional zeal."

_"Anthea_ has professional zeal," Greg returns, his pulse heavy. "She respects you and your choices. She listens for what you want and then she gets you it. This kid thinks you deserve better than me, and he's not taking any pains to hide it."

Mycroft casts a single glance along the patio, ensuring the two of them are still alone. 

He then steps closer, gently removes the cigarette from Greg's hand, and tosses it away into the darkness. 

As his hands cup Greg's face, Greg's stomach tightens.

"Within a week," Mycroft murmurs, touching the tip of his nose to Greg's, "I was tuning out eighty to ninety percent of Hugo's conversation. He's entirely too young and too eager, and I quite simply have better things to think about. He'll be leaving my employ in the very moment that Anthea feels ready to return. If I've been neglectful in observing his behaviour towards me, it's because he occupies such a temporary role in my mind. I sorely wish you'd broached this subject with me sooner."

Greg closes his eyes, unable to bear it. 

"Sorry," he whispers. "I just... I-I'm still—y'know..."

"I know." Mycroft kisses him gently, his lips soft and warm. "I realise there's history."

"Christ, he just... he's always _touching_ you," Greg manages, shaking. "He looks me dead in the eye when he does it. I think he's testing me. I don't know if he's actually planning to make a move on you, or if he just wants me to understand that he could. But it's killing me to—"

"Gregory, I'm going to stop you there. He could not."

"I... I-I know, darlin'. But—"

_"Do_ you?" Mycroft murmurs, looking into Greg's eyes. "Do you fully appreciate what an impossibility that is?"

Greg says nothing, unable to breathe. 

His husband's gaze softens.

"Whatever intentions I've been remiss in overlooking," Mycroft says, brushing his thumb across Greg's cheek, "are not any sort of threat to you. I assure you."

_Please just take me home. Please._

"I'm sorry," Greg says, his voice breaking. "I'm really sorry."

Mycroft's arms wrap quietly around him. Mycroft gathers him in, holding him close, and slips his fingers through the back of Greg's hair.

"I'm sorry my radar for these things is unfit for purpose," he says in Greg's ear, cradling him as Greg nuzzles with longing into his neck. "You'll recall it took me an age to notice your intentions towards me, too."

Fragile, Greg can't hold in a shivering huff of humour. Mycroft was oblivious to his hopeful flirting for months on end. One night at the Diogenes, given courage by several glasses of scotch, Greg had finally leaned in close and pressed their lips together. They'd kissed for several seconds before Mycroft nervously inquired, _"Why are you kissing me, Lestrade?"_ It then took an hour's gentle explanation for Mycroft to understand that Greg was genuinely attracted to him. Mycroft just wasn't used to this happening. He kept asking if Greg was certain that he wanted to be.

A lot has happened since then—a lot of learning, a lot of time, a lot of closeness.

Holding onto Mycroft, Greg swallows back his fear.

"I know you wouldn't, love," he whispers. "It's not about that."

Mycroft's arms gather him closer. "It's the insult being paid to your position."

Greg shudders, wishing it didn't seem so petty and so small. For months, he's bullied himself for still feeling wounded after all this time. He's told himself he should be stronger, more secure.

But holy fuck, it hurts.

"Don't like anyone believing they could get between us," he mumbles, holding onto his husband tight. "Don't like him making it so obvious. It just cripples me. These people who want to prove they're amazing by breaking up happy marriages. Like it means they're better somehow. I fucking hate it."

Mycroft makes some gentling noise in Greg's ear, soothing him, and begins to rock Greg slowly from side to side. Greg taught him this. It was years ago now, right back at the start—how to comfort someone. 

Greg's soul seems to melt at the edges, soaking in the love he's being shown.

"When we return to the party," Mycroft murmurs, "please don't distance yourself from me. We can neutralise this whole issue very easily if we do it together. And I promise you my plan will be far more effective than simply strangling the boy from a distance with your stare."

_Fuck._ "H-he wouldn't get his hands off you."

Mycroft huffs gently. "I'll admit I wondered," he confesses. "You rather looked as if you were planning to eat him."

Greg cringes, tucking himself tighter into Mycroft's hug. 

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't want this to be a big deal. I've been trying to drop him hints for months, hoping he'll just back off."

"Well... if you're right, darling, then he's been trying to give you the same. I'm very happy to clear up the confusion. Shall we do that now, mm? I think some of our friends have been worrying about you."

*

They rejoin the party together side by side, some new brightness visible in Mycroft's gaze. He pauses only to collect them both another drink, then guides Greg fondly to a nearby knot of people, his hand resting with care on the small of Greg's back. The circle opens at once to admit them, everyone delighted to be joined; handshakes are shared.

"You all remember Gregory, of course?" Mycroft says, his hand still warm on Greg's back. He rubs Greg gently as conversation begins. "Araminta was telling me earlier about her recent trip to St Barts, darling. I think we might have to book ourselves some winter sun..."

The chat flows ahead, effortless and easy. 

For Greg, it's healing just to stand here at his husband's side, Mycroft's arm around his waist. His heart thumps as happily as when Mycroft first started bringing him to these parties. He'll contribute more to the conversation in a few minutes. For now, he's quietly overjoyed to be at peace.

After a while, a waiter appears with another platter of cheese for them all to try. Mycroft checks the glass of red wine in Greg's hand.

"I think I put you on chianti, didn't I?" he murmurs, then reaches over to the platter, selecting one of the cocktail sticks. "Here... you'll want something Mediterranean with it. Try this."

He offers the cheese to Greg's mouth, holding the stick for him to eat. His eyes shine in the subdued lighting, his smile small and secretive—just for Greg.

_Christ, I love you._ Greg tugs the cheese from the end of the stick with a grin, his heart beating harder. _I love you so much._

Mycroft's gaze glitters.

*

Happy and reassured at his husband's side, it takes almost an hour for Greg to realise something. He hasn't seen Hugo—hasn't looked for him, not even once. For most of the evening, Hugo was standing as close to Mycroft as if their sleeves were sewn together at the wrist. Every conversation Mycroft started, Hugo wanted to be centre stage in it. Now he's nowhere to be found.

It's hard not to draw conclusions.

Mycroft seems to be circling conclusions, too.

"Would you aid me in testing a theory?" he murmurs in Greg's ear, his voice low. 

Greg tips back the last of his latest drink. "Sure, love."

"Take a short bathroom or smoke break, will you? Ten minutes, perhaps. I'd like to see what happens." Mycroft touches the tip of his nose to Greg's temple. "Interrupt when you return."

Understanding dawns. Greg smiles a little, nervous. "Yeah?"

"Promise me you will," Mycroft murmurs, looking directly into his eyes, his pupils wide and soft. 

Greg won't ever be able to resist that look. It does things to him that he just can't explain.

"Alright," he says. He hesitates only briefly, leans up, and presses his lips to the corner of his husband's mouth. Mycroft tilts his face into the contact. "See you soon, love."

As he heads towards the patio doors, fishing his phone from inside his jacket, Greg has the curious sensation of being watched—by more than one pair of eyes.

He spends the next ten minutes stood outside, scrolling dimly through the news and smoking. It's hard to resist glancing in through the windows, but he manages. Part of him has started to wonder if he's wrong about all this—causing fuss where there isn't any, accusing some poor kid of things he's never done. It's in Greg's nature to see the best in people. At work, he doesn't tend to trust hunches or instinct. He trusts the evidence, the proven facts and the science. When his cases end in a prison sentence, it's the evidence that sends them there, not hunches. 

He doesn't like that he's now failed to apply those principles to Hugo, all because of hot-blooded jealousy. Two hours ago, he was certain beyond all doubt. Now he's brought it up, he's suddenly questioning the testimony of his own eyes.

Walking back into the party, Greg slides his hands in his pockets and scans the room for Mycroft. He finds him in the same circle of conversation where Greg left him—with a familiar blonde figure now restored to his side, holding a glass of white wine and laughing, as close as he could be without physically looping his arm through Mycroft's.

The sight causes a nervous thud to disrupt Greg's pulse. Part of him begs at once to go back outside. Part of him wants to march over there, seize Hugo by the neck and drag him into the street for a fight. He's lived in this horrible state of limbo for months, and he can't blame himself for wanting to crawl away from it and hide. Keeping all his misery to himself has seemed like the safest option, hurting nobody who matters.

Only Greg's previous promise gets his feet to walk across the room. He approaches calmly, quietly, staying in Mycroft's line of sight so he can be seen. He's not sure what Mycroft intends to happen now. This feels reckless somehow, unreasonable, like he's launching an act of aggression for no good reason. 

_My husband,_ Greg reminds himself, offering Mycroft a cautious smile in greeting. _I'm not out of line, am I? Refusing to share you._

Mycroft's expression warms. _Come here,_ his gaze seems to murmur.

A few feet away, Greg makes the mistake of risking a glance at Hugo. As they meet eyes, the smile seems to slide from Hugo's face like water from an oiled surface. His pleasant and airy laughter tails out with a visible flash of irritation—as if he can't quite bear Greg's rudeness, barging into the conversation this way—as if Greg has surely taken up quite enough of Mycroft's time for one night. Hugo then turns his gaze up towards Mycroft, seeking something. Exactly what, Greg can't be certain.

But Mycroft's eyes rest only on Greg.

"There you are," he murmurs. He greets Greg with a gentle kiss, resting his hand at the side of Greg's hip. "Smoke break, was it?" He inclines his head but not his eyes to one side. "Fetch Gregory another glass of red, will you, Hugo?"

Hugo's expression seems to close with a snap. He pales and flushes at once, drawing himself up a little higher.

"Of course," he says, toneless, then withdraws with reluctance from his place in the circle. He strides away without a backwards glance.

Mycroft guides Greg to settle at his side once more, his expression a masterclass in polite neutrality. The group's conversation hasn't skipped for even a moment. No one has noticed a thing.

"How long did it take?" Greg asks in undertones, leaning against his husband's shoulder.

Mycroft's fingertips brush Greg's lower back beneath his jacket.

"No more than a minute," he replies, murmuring. "Forgive me for not seeing this before. It's obvious to me now."

"Nothing to forgive." Greg stirs quietly, enjoying the affectionate stroke of his husband's fingers. "M'sorry I didn't just come talk to you. I should've done. I guess I felt a bit tragic for feeling insecure. But... well, you've always understood."

Mycroft's arm tightens gently. "Would you prefer if I replace him?"

"Oh—Jesus, no. You don't have to do that, darlin'."

"Are you certain?"

"No, don't punish him. He's not a bad kid. He's just... _young._ Got stars in his eyes and thinks you're a ladder."

Mycroft huffs, amused by the phrasing. "Perhaps I've worked too hard to keep my private life private from him."

"Mm?"

"I've never seen any need to discuss my marriage during the course of our work, so he's come to the conclusion I'm somehow unsatisfied. I hope that seeing the two of us together more often will correct that impression for him."

"Here's hoping," Greg says. He turns his mouth a little closer to Mycroft's ear, discreetly half-nuzzling his nose along his husband's jaw. "Take me home, will you? Soonish."

Only Greg is close enough to catch the fractional break in Mycroft's breath. His fingers curl gently at Greg's back, his expression still perfectly clean. "Mm?"

Greg leans closer in response. "Mm hmm."

*

Hugo barely says a word during the car journey home, typing in annoyance on his phone. He slams the door on Greg, which is maybe a bit unnecessary, then storms off to his room in the old servants' wing without being officially dismissed.

"Is this typical of me?" Greg asks, as he and Mycroft retire to their own room for the night.

"Mm?"

"Feeling bad for upsetting him."

Mycroft chuckles, closing the door behind them. 

"You've always been charmingly concerned with the welfare of others," he says as he crosses to the antique mirror in the corner. "I'm not sure I'd go so far as 'typical', though."

Greg watches, his heart thumping gently as Mycroft flips his collar.

"I'm sorry again for not piecing the clues together," Mycroft says, unknotting his tie. "It's painfully clear now you've pointed it out to me. I'm afraid I lack the necessary programming to spot these things on my own."

Greg can't fight a smile. He wonders how many people over the years have arranged themselves temptingly in Mycroft's path, only for him to stroll on by, oblivious. There must be quite a few of them. 

Sidling over to join Mycroft at the mirror, Greg settles himself against his husband's back. 

"You're getting better at it," he says. He strokes the tip of his nose against Mycroft's shirt collar, reaching around to undo his waistcoat buttons for him. "You're better at reading me, at least."

Mycroft's eyes glitter. "Probably the amount of practice I've now had."

"Mm hmm." Greg slips the fastenings apart one by one, holding eye contact in the glass. "Suppose you can take it for granted that I fancy the arse off you. Removes a lot of the guesswork."

"Mm?" Mycroft's mouth curls, just on the brink of a smile. "I can rely on that, can I?"

"Yep. Never gonna change." Closing his eyes, Greg nuzzles into the side of Mycroft's neck. This scent will forever and always be his favourite: _husband._ There's nothing like it in the world. "You tired yet, darlin'?"

Mycroft rumbles with amusement, the sound low and cosy in the quiet. "Is this a test of my intimate knowledge of you?"

"Mm?"

"I suspect that's not precisely what you're asking, dear heart."

Smiling, Greg eases open the last button of Mycroft's waistcoat.

"Full marks," he hums. "Flying colours..." As he untucks Mycroft's shirt, Mycroft's eyes flicker shut with hopeful enjoyment. The sight sends heat spilling through Greg's blood. "Christ, I love you," he whispers. "Please. Please promise me you're mine. Promise that you always will be."

"No one else is here undressing me, darling."

"I-I know, love. But..."

Mycroft smiles, settling his head back against Greg's shoulder. 

"Ridiculous man," he murmurs. "No one will ever delight me like you do. No one will ever come close."

_God._ Tingles shiver up Greg's back. He has to close his eyes to cope with it, overjoyed, his heart pounding as he hugs his husband slowly around the chest. _Mine. Always mine._

"Would a physical demonstration of my devotion help?" Mycroft asks him softly. Greg's pulse kicks into double time. "It's been a while since I made love to you."

"Oh, god—" The first time Mycroft ever used those words, _making love_ seemed so sweet and so touchingly old-fashioned that Greg just couldn't bear to update them. After several years together, Greg can't think of their time in bed as anything else. Those words pool longing in the pit of his stomach the same way _fucking_ used to. Mycroft doesn't ever have sex with Greg, he either makes love to Greg or begs his husband to make love to him, and it's the hottest fucking thing on the planet. Dragging in a breath, Greg pulls at the buttons of his husband's shirt. "I-I want you—"

In bed, Mycroft takes the lead. He takes it slow and restless, edging Greg twice before he's even reached to the bedside for a condom. By the time Mycroft eases gently inside him, Greg's entire body feels like it's burning. He keeps his legs locked around his husband's waist and pants, gripping onto Mycroft's shoulders, bearing down and breathing through the quiet flutters of discomfort. _I want you inside me,_ he thinks, swallowing. _I want you. I want this._ He presses his nose to Mycroft's pulse, drinking in his husband's scent, and relaxes his mind and his body. _I want you in me, want you deep. Want you close._

Mycroft coaxes Greg to kiss him as they wait. Ever patient, ever loving, he hums to Greg and gently murmurs his name, fingertips brushing as soft as feathers down Greg's side. Greg's tremors slowly begin to ease.

Nothing in the world compares to Mycroft's first gentle pushes. Greg's mouth falls open on its own, his breath stolen by the slick and lazy slide within him. Even the ache feels good. Lost, all he can do is cling to Mycroft's back and pant his pleasure against his husband's lips, breaking into whimpers when Mycroft finds his rhythm. 

Time always seems to stop when they're like this. Greg can never tell if he's had Mycroft inside him for minutes or hours. There's only pleasure, and it's perfect, and it's endless.

Somewhere in the haze, the pad of Mycroft's tongue sweeps against the shell of Greg's ear.

"Mine," he breathes, his voice soft and fractured. His cock drives deeper. "My darling."

_Oh, shit—_

"Yours," Greg lets out. He thought it would be a gasp; it leaves him closer to a sob, his back arching up from the bed. "Yours, yours."

"Mm?" Mycroft shifts, retrieves Greg's hand from its tight grip on the sheets, and relocates it down between them where Greg's cock stands leaking and ignored. "Are you going to prove it to me, sweet? Let me see?"

_Fuck._ As soon as Greg's fingers graze against his cock, he knows he won't last more than a few slick pulls. He's too hard, too desperate to come. Even just forming a sleeve around his cock, feeling himself this solid and fired up, makes him moan.

Mycroft shivers, drinking the sound from his mouth.

"That's it," he murmurs, perfectly in control even now, every syllable crafted and soft. "That's it, my darling. Lay your head back and show me you belong to me."

_Fuck. Fuck._

Greg tips his head back, shaking, and tries to keep his stroking light. It's too good, though. He wants it too much. His grip tightens on its own, needing this. As he fucks up into his own fist, flushed and struggling to breathe, Mycroft matches his rhythm and drives him on towards the end.

Climax seems to begin some distance off, a flare on the horizon. Greg's muscles clench as he realises it's happening, coming for him like an earthquake through the ground—sharpening, tightening, surging, higher and brighter and hotter. Greg tries to gasp a warning, but ends up crying out as the force of it blows him into tiny fucking pieces, too much, too good, clawing his fingers tight into his husband's back. Mycroft, perfect, keeps him going until just the right moment—knows just when to slow, when to stop, when to let Greg heave and pant and come down underneath him, moaning and sweating like a broken wreck. He knows to let Greg have a minute just like this before he withdraws.

They roll the condom off Mycroft's still rigid erection together, their fingers shaking. The condom goes into the waste bin by the bed; Greg shuffles down the mattress, rests his head against one edge. 

He takes his husband's orgasm down his throat, still shivering with his own aftershocks. This will always be his favourite way to finish. Sex isn't the same without this part—these perfect, mindless and intimate minutes where Greg is wrung out and oversensitive, all his skin tingling, and all he knows in the world are Mycroft's sounds, Mycroft's pleasure, the crown of Mycroft's heavy cock sliding against the wet pad of his tongue. Between Greg's thighs, he's still slick and open, all his insides throbbing. Sometimes when he does this, even though he's aching and post-coital, he fantasises a second Mycroft in between his legs: pinned down to the bed, fucked at both ends, trembling as both forms of his husband get what they need from him. It's almost enough to make him hard again.

Once Mycroft has come—choking softly, fingers curling tight at the nape of Greg's neck—they bury themselves beneath the covers together, bare-skinned and still shivering with enjoyment.

"I love you," Greg breathes, wrapping around his husband as tightly as he can. "I love you so much. Don't ever leave me. Please don't run off with Hugo."

Exhausted and at ease, Mycroft actually laughs.

"What precisely could he offer me," he asks, scrunching his fingers through Greg's hair, "that I don't already have in my arms this very moment?"

"Nngh. He's young."

"Darling, recall that I loathe the young."

"He's an Oxbridge boy like you, then. Pretty. Smart."

"You are infinitely more attractive to me," Mycroft says, rising a hot and happy flush in Greg's cheeks. "And, for what it's worth, he's not nearly as smart as he believes. If he'd been born on the same street as you, he'd likely be working in a shop somewhere. Everything he has, he's collected through his influential connections. You've earned yours, my love. I wish to spend my nights with a man, not a boy."

Grinning, Greg strokes one foot down the back of Mycroft's leg. "Even when he's being a green-eyed idiot?"

Mycroft huffs.

"Please speak more kindly of my husband," he says. "I happen to adore him, scars and all."

_God._

"H-have I mentioned that I love you?" Greg asks. He draws a deep breath, shivering as Mycroft strokes a kiss against his throat. "You mean the world to me, Myc. I'm serious. I wouldn't know how to live without you."

Mycroft hums. "You'll never need to, my darling. I promise. Neither hell nor high water shall part me from your side."


End file.
